


Paint over Cinderblock

by jenna_thorn



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, Vegas Golden Knights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:50:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: If any furface pulled the licking stunt Marchand did, he'd be out with a muzzle in the bottom of his bag, not a slap on the wrist.





	Paint over Cinderblock

Coach knows. Mostly because coach knows everything, ever, but also because the medical team has to know, even the nutritionist and the trainers, and McPhee and Foley know because well, they know. But none of the pranks are dog food or a leash or a rabies tag. The stuffed white dog wearing a jersey with a mangled version of Fleury's name showed up in every locker. Half of them went home with Fleury, for his girls. So he doesn't know if the team doesn't know or doesn't care, and he's trying to decide just how he feels about that. He didn't realize he'd miss Mikko so much since they weren't friends or anything. Captain is pack leader, but the Knights have no captain.

It's not like he's the only furface in the league, anyway. Every pundit and fan knows someone and they are usually about half right. Ovi coming out was the latest step in a process of assimilation that's taken decades. Maybe everyone coming out would be the last step, but his grandmother's fears were instilled early and the MedicAlert bracelet felt like a tattoo on his face during his teens. The Caps supported the hell out of Ovechkin. He should have faith, in his teammates, in Gallant, in the 21st century. He doesn't, but he feels like he should. 

So "everybody knows" there's a lycan on every team, usually the enforcers and the same names pop up in podcasts and on Twitter: Reaves, Radulov, Malkin, Wilson. You'd think the league would be overrun, but Erik guesses they all play rugby or football (American football, shut up Karl). If any furface pulled the licking stunt Marchand did, he'd be out with a muzzle in the bottom of his bag, not a slap on the wrist. Humans don't have the weight of the old days pressing down on them. 

Besides, even after a game, when any scent blocker would turn tail, Reaves smells human as they come. Radulov is, no doubt, but Erik doesn't have to smell him. Look at his smile, at his eyes when he blocks, the way he skates. Geno might be. Tom Wilson isn't; he's just an asshole. Team chirping doesn't respect boundaries so much as disregard them, and words get slung around, but they aren't directed at him. And if Veelas were real, which they _aren't_ , it wouldn't be Wild Bill he'd put his money on, but Wennberg. That boy's too damn pretty for hockey.

But at the end of November, he pauses in the paint over cinderblock, fooling nobody corridor at Xcel, not even thinking about the loss, but feeling off-foot in the wrong locker room, the scent of Minnesota air strange in its familiarity. The months in the desert weren't enough to make the snow on the tarmac when they'd landed not feel like home, even if he'd only been here two years. Vegas doesn't have snow. It isn't the snow he misses. 

Fleury strides down the corridor in his suit and stupid sunglasses, throws one arm over his shoulder and drags him into the visitors locker room. Erik stands, staring at the masking tape with 56 on it and runs the edge of his thumb over the L on his bracelet. He realizes the room has gone quiet, more quiet than the usual post-loss grudging silence. He turns to see Fleury make some hand sign to Nealer, then reach out to place one hand to each side of Erik's face. "Golden Misfits, yeah?" Fleury asks. Erik nods. "Golden is the important word." 

He shakes Erik's face and Erik .. he doesn't lean into the hug, he staggers, he drops, he falls into it. Flower catches him and Subban crowds in, his pads jamming into Erik's ribs and one thigh, and then McNabb steps in to the right, his arms around Erik's neck and pits in his nose, and then another and another, individual scents buried under the reek of Lysol and plastic and sweat, even his own, so intermingled that he can't tell who is who, only that he is in the middle. 

He doesn't have a pack, but he has a team. And that is good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I recognize that I'm playing fast and loose with time, (the Bark-Andre Furry toys didn't come out until their second season) but it's a werewolf AU, so...


End file.
